by Alex Gray
‘Baggage?’ Juan asked, miming the backpack that Brogan had taken on board.
‘Oh, aye, be with you in a mo,’ he said, then headed back to the spot where he had spent all these hours of misery. He heaved the pack onto his back and returned to where Juan stood above the inflatable.
‘No carry,’ the man said, pulling at the pack. ‘Baggage go first.’ Then, before Brogan had time to protest, the Spaniard had taken
the pack and flung it into the stern of the dinghy, climbing as nimbly as a monkey after it. ‘Now, come,’ Juan told him, beckoning with his sun-darkened hand.
Brogan hesitated for a moment then, with a deep breath, swung his leg over the side, clinging to the rope ladder with two white knuckled fists. He breathed hard as he made the descent, feeling his feet slip against the rounded rungs, fearful of letting go. At last he reached the dinghy and the sailor’s outstretched hand then with one leap he was in the boat, making it rock violently. ‘Sit!’ Juan commanded and Brogan sat where he was told, next to his luggage, shifting to make room for Carlos who was suddenly there as if by magic. Brogan clung on to the rubber handles on each side as the outboard motor roared into life, bucketing them across the final strip of water towards the shore. For once the motion did not make his stomach heave and he felt a mixture of relief and exhilaration as salt spray was flung across his face. Brogan looked at the strange houses that were built just above the shoreline, their flat roofs showing cables and masonry as though each of them was in the process of being constructed. Had he known it, this was a traditional method of building: each new storey ready and prepared for an expanding family that included the older generation, something that typified the culture of North Africa. But Billy Brogan knew nothing of this, and even less about the village beside which they were now landing. Near Marrakesh, he had supposed, not knowing that Carlos had actually sailed his boat many hundreds of miles away from Brogan’s desired destination.
Billy had never known such hospitality, even in Glasgow, a city
famed for its kindness to the strangers within its gates. They were
seated on cushions around a low square table in the main room of
the house that belonged to some distant relation of Juan’s. Brogan couldn’t make out what was being said but he reckoned from all the back-slapping, smiles and hugs that Juan had received from the men and women of the house that he was a long lost cousin of some sort. And any friend of Juan’s … he grinned, sipping the strange tasting tea that he had been offered. It was like drinking peppermints and treacle, he thought, eyeing the dark green liquid floating in the tiny gilt-edged cup. They had been sitting here for what seemed like hours now and were at that stage when after dinner sweetmeats were being offered and the hookahs brought out to smoke. Food had been conjured up from a kitchen somewhere and the younger women had carried enormous, brightly painted bowls of spicy meats and fragrant rice to each of the men sitting cross-legged around the central table.
None of the women had joined them for food, Brogan noticed. But some of them had looked at him with shy almond eyes, giggling as he attempted to thank them in his broad Glasgow accent. They haven’t a clue what I’m saying, he thought. And for the first time Billy Brogan felt a pang of homesickness for the place where everything he said and did was understood. A nod, a grunt or a particular gesture could speak volumes when you were with your own kind, he realised wistfully, listening to the excited voices raised all around him.
A tap at his back made him turn and there was Carlos, standing grinning down at him.
The Spaniard made a motion with his head towards the door and Brogan rose to follow him, bobbing a little bow to the rest of the company as he made his way from the smoke-filled room. ‘Now is time to settle our account, Setior Brogan,’ Carlos smiled at Billy. ‘And then we go on our way,’ he waved a hand at the boat whose hull was glistening in the sunshine out on the bay.
‘Eh, sure thing, Carlos. What do I do?’ he asked, looking around him. All Brogan could see was a narrow trail disappearing around a corner of the shoreline. ‘Is there, urn, a bus … like … that I can get to Marrakesh from here?’ ‘Bus, yes. Get a bus at the next stop around the corner. Maybe a mile along the road,’ Carlos assured him, wagging his head. ‘Right, pal,’ Billy said, delving in to his pocket and taking out the dollars that he had kept folded inside his pocketbook. ‘What we agreed, eh?’ he said, frowning slightly as Carlos licked his thumb and flicked through the notes to check on the amount. The Spaniard gave him a grin as the money disappeared into a leather bag on a string that he kept around his neck, hidden under the same blue cotton shirt that he had worn for the entire journey. The haces reir; Carlos said suddenly, giving such a guffaw that Brogan began to laugh with him. *You make me laugh. ‘What time’s the bus?’ Billy asked as Carlos made to walk away. ‘Oh, you stay here until tomorrow,’ Carlos told him. `Juan’s family be very upset if you leave them too soon. Comprendesr ‘Aye, comprende right enough,’ Brogan agreed. The laws of hospitality were the same the world over, after all; to fail to show appreciation of one’s hosts was to give offence. He grinned back at the Spaniard who slapped his back as they returned to the house.
Billy woke up, trying to figure out where he was. The swell of the boat was making him sway from side to side, but as his eyes opened, he saw that he was lying on a couch in an unfamiliar room, silken curtains blowing gently at the windows. It was not the boat that was making him feel so weird, but perhaps, Brogan reasoned, he was still feeling its motion. A scent of something sweet filled his nostrils and he saw twin wisps of smoke coming
from a dish beside the couch. Joss sticks, he thought, smiling in remembrance of the many times he’d had pals round for a session. In Glasgow you burned them to mask the smell of the joints; here they were part of the ambience. Brogan let his eyes close again with a sigh of contentment.
He had little recall of the previous evening, a smoke-filled haze of laughter and girls dancing to the music of tabor and sitar. But he did have a memory of gentle hands guiding him along a darkened corridor and a black pointed lantern pierced with stars that swung to and fro as he staggered away from the throng. Suddenly he remembered that he hadn’t said goodbye to Juan or Carlos. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and felt the tiled floor beneath his bare feet. Padding towards the window, he parted the curtains and looked out across the palm fringed bay.
The boat was gone.
Brogan twisted his mouth into a moue of disappointment. Och, well, they had a long way to go, he told himself. But the idea of being quite alone with people who could not understand his speech was disconcerting, no matter how kind they had been. He dressed quickly and made his way down a narrow wooden staircase that was painted in stripes of red and green. The room where he had spent such a joyous time last night was empty. The square table had been spread with a piece of embroidered linen and someone had stacked the cushions in a corner, neatly, out of the way.
‘Hello?’ he called out, but his voice fell dully against the whitewashed walls and somehow Brogan knew he was alone in this house. Whoever had lit the joss sticks couldn’t be too far away, though, he reasoned. Sauntering through to the back, he found a small kitchen with a refrigerator that hummed loudly as though its
thermostat were working overtime. “I ‘he table in the middle of the room had been swept clean of crumbs and on one side was a mat of fringed cloth laid with a bowl, a spoon and a plate. Had they all gone to work? Brogan wondered. And was this their way of saying help yourself to breakfast? Shrugging off a feeling of unease that was threatening to make him nervous, Brogan opened the fridge and drew out a jug of milk and a carton of orange juice. He gave a sigh of relief. His throat felt as though someone had sandpapered it during the night. Pulling open the corner of the carton, he swallowed greedily, wiping the drops that fell over and under his chin. A cupboard high up on the wall revealed a packet of cornflakes that had been tied up with a pair of knotted shoelaces. An expression of puzzlement c
rossed his face until he remembered the pavement cafes back in Cala Millor and the hosts of tiny ants that had gathered under the tables. Nodding to himself in sudden understanding at the makeshift precaution, Brogan dumped the cornflakes onto the table and began his meal. He’d emptied two bowls full of cereal before he thought to look out of the front door to see if anyone was around. Raking a hand through hair that was already damp from the heat, Brogan opened the door on to a wide veranda that looked out onto the ocean.
Looking from left to right he could see nobody at all on the deserted sand, not even one of the old folk who had grinned toothlessly at him from across the table the previous evening. ‘Right, Brogan,’ he said aloud. ‘Time to move on.’ He grinned as he squinted up at the acres of blue above him, as fathomless as the stretch of water he had so recently crossed. ‘Marrakesh, here I come.’
Less than a quarter of an hour later, Brogan was whistling as he
walked down the path that led away from the little village, pack on his back, feeling like a real adventurer.
It would be hours before he came to the next sign of civilisation, foot-sore and weary, but Brogan had no notion that he was on the coast of northern Algeria, nor of the immense distance that separated him from the western tip of this great continent.
CHAPTER 30
C ‘ome in, Fathy, sit down,’ Lorimer beckoned the young man
who had knocked on his door and now hovered on the threshold.
‘Any news of Marianne Scott?’
Fathy shook his head. Not yet, sir, but there are still a few departments we have to visit.’ He cleared his throat nervously. ‘It was on a personal matter that I wanted to see you, sir.’ Lorimer sat up a little straighter, looking quizzically at the detective constable. The thought came to him that Fathy had been a bit quieter than usual during team meetings. And now, seeing the younger man twisting his fingers together on his lap, Lorimer realised that there was something seriously amiss. ‘I wanted to tell you why I left Grampian for Strathclyde,’ Fathy began. He looked down at his hands and clasped them together as though to keep them still and calm himself. ‘I was the target of some racist incidents,’ he mumbled.
‘That doesn’t sound so good,’ Lorimer frowned. ‘I suppose the persons responsible were properly dealt with?’
Fathy looked up, his eyes full of appeal. ‘That’s just it, sir. I never told anybody about what was going on. I just asked for a transfer and came down here.’
‘Well you should have,’ Lorimer insisted. ‘Grampian would want to make an example of whoever targeted you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you want me to do something about it now?’ Fathy looked embarrassed. ‘That’s not what I came to say, sir. You see,’ he took a deep breath before continuing, ‘it’s begun to happen again.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Fathy drew out the notes and laid them on Lorimer’s desk. ‘I found that first one in my locker here,’ he said, pointing to the note. ‘Then I had a series of letters through the post, all saying the same thing, see.’ He lifted them one after the other, displaying the similar words.
‘Good Lord,’ Lorimer sat back exhaling as though he had been winded. ‘I find it hard to believe that someone in this police office would do such a thing.’ ‘It’s true, though, sir,’ Fathy’s mouth trembled for a moment as he met Lorimer’s eyes. ‘And I think it must be linked to what happened up in Aberdeen. Same sort of notes, same kind of messages.’ ‘Well,’ Lorimer shook his head as though finding the man’s words hard to fathom, ‘I’ll need you to complete a proper statement about this. You do realise that, don’t you?’
Fathy nodded, his shoulders slumped in what Lorimer recognised as plain misery. ‘If we ever find out who was responsible for this then it’ll be a matter for the procurator fiscal.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea who is behind this?’ Fathy shook his head, still looking down at his hands as though he were the guilty party in this affair. Lorimer knew the signs; the man was feeling tainted by it all, dirtied. ‘I don’t know who would do anything like this, sir,’ he said at last, looking up to meet that familiar blue gaze. ‘I did try to find
out up there. .’ he tailed off with a tired shrug that spoke more than all the words he had yet uttered. It was hopeless to think that anyone in Grampian might be able to help Fathy now, Lorimer thought. But it was not too late to set up some sort of surveillance to catch someone at this end.
‘Look, leave this with me,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Write me that statement but keep this completely to yourself for now. If we are to find out who’s been up to this… this nonsense,’ he spat out the word as though it was a bad taste in his mouth, ‘then you can be sure it’ll result in a disciplinary hearing for them at the very least. Okay?’
Annie Irvine stole a glance at her sidekick as he sat back at his desk. His dark face was flushed and there was something about the tilt of his head that made her continue to stare until he turned to catch her looking at him.
‘What?’ Fathy asked.
Annie grinned at him. ‘Nothing. Just that you seem more your old self today, that’s all. And here’s me thinking that you were getting all worked up about not finding Marianne Brogan.’ Fathy grinned back at her. ‘Well, I don’t share the boss’s opinion, you know that.’ His smile slipped as his expression became more thoughtful. ‘I think she’s alive.’ He turned towards Annie. ‘Don’t you?’
It was Annie Irvine’s turn to become reticent and she mumbled an unconvincing dunno as she turned back to her computer screen. In truth, Annie knew that she was becoming more and more engrossed in the background to this case. And she desperately wanted Marianne Brogan to be somewhere in the world, still warm and upright.
‘You know about stalkers, don’t you?’ Fathy continued softly. ‘I saw your face when these photographs came back.’
Annie gave a non-committal shrug, not daring to turn and face him. ‘What do you know about stalkers, Annie?’ Omar Fathy whispered gently. There was a silence between them for several minutes as Fathy waited for a reply. Then the policewoman turned towards him. ‘That’s why I joined the force,’ she said, her face darkening. ‘And if you knew what I’d been through, you’d understand a lot more about that poor woman,’ she nodded towards a blown-up photo of Marianne. Omar slipped his hand across their desks, covering Annie’s fingers and giving her an enigmatic smile. ‘Maybe I understand more than you realise,’ he said, squeezing her hand gently before releasing his grip.
Marianne felt the wind on her face as the car breezed down the dual carriageway towards Loch Lomond. She had let down the window a few centimetres and now she smelled a freshness in the air as they passed green fields on either side. Sheep and fat lambs grazed amiably and for a moment Marianne envied them their simple lives of feeding, growth and reproduction, so different from the complexities of human existence. The landscape changed to overhanging cliffs on one side and soon they were slowing down at the signs for Loch Lomond Shores. She leaned back as they circled the roundabout that went on to Balloch and Gartocharn, smiling at Max as he continued to drive north. She had suggested Duck Bay Marina for no other reason than it was scenic, a lovely day and they could be guaranteed something nice to eat. Earlier Max had asked her for directions and she saw that he had a good memory since he hadn’t needed to enquire again. He was a bright man as well as good company, Marianne
thought to herself. Older than he had sounded on the phone, but then she had expected someone of Billy’s age, hadn’t she? He had short hair, thinning a little, but his features were regular and strong, something Marianne found reassuring. Suddenly the woman found herself thinking about the slight, dark Asian and a pang of guilt coursed through her. Should she have run out on Amit like that? Had these latest dreams been no more than fantastic shapes whirling around her brain? Shaking her head, Marianne tried to put all such things out of her mind. Lines from last year’s English class flitted into her brain. These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad.
And surely
that was true? She had to put her night-time thoughts away from her. Doctor Brightman had shown her the way out of these dark places. Now, Marianne told herself, as the sunlight streamed through the windscreen, it was time to begin somewhere new. And perhaps Max Whittaker was the man to lead her there.
Solly lifted the green file and put it into his already bulging briefcase. Dreams, he smiled to himself. That had been one of the more successful in his series of lectures to last year’s undergraduates. Now he had updated it to include references from Shakespeare, and the Bard’s plays were still to the forefront of his mind. Last night he and Rosie had discussed possible names for the baby. Again. It was a pity, he thought, that they had not yet come to any agreement about this. His recent foray into Shakespearean literature seemed to have influenced his own preferences: Miranda, Imogen, Harry and Anthony. They all sounded fine when conjoined with his surname. But Rosie had wrinkled her nose. Her own choices had Celtic overtones: Siobhan, Mhairi,
Ruaridh and Euan. He’d smiled as usual, shrugged them off and suggested they both look at the well-thumbed book of children’s
names once more. ‘You will know what his name is when you see him,’ Ma Brightman had said when he had revealed their dilemma to his
mother. She was so sure it would be a boy, he laughed to himself: a little new Brightman to continue the family tree. Solly had dreamed about the child last night. A boy, certainly, but not a newborn. This was a little lad who had walked by his side, blonde head uncovered, shining in the sun. And although the details of that dream were now hazy, SoIly still retained the powerful feeling of paternal love towards the boy who had slipped into his unconscious mind. He smiled as he lifted the briefcase and headed towards the door of the flat. Dreams, indeed!
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream is all about the quarrel that Oberon and Titania have over the little changeling boy,’ Maggie told her class. ‘The whole of the natural world is turned topsy-turvy as the quarrel persists, making the summer weather wet, foggy and
